“That’s the owner. He wanted to wish us good luck next week and that you’re a welcome addition to the team.”
I’m pretty chuffed at that. “Thank you,” I tell him. “I mean, you can tell him that when he comes by.”
“Don’t look so surprised. When new people are brought in, we usually see it as a good thing. Especially with the therapists.”
“Yeah, especially after Doctor Dumbass did that shit,” Vera says as she pours us all a flute of champagne.
“You mean Doctor Costa?” I ask.
“Vera,” Mateo chides her.
“What?” she says. “I’m just repeating what I read in the papers. I keep the stuff you tell me in the vault.” She makes a motion of zipping her lips.
I look at Mateo. “What happened?”
Mateo sighs loudly. “I really don’t want to get into it here. Not tonight. This is supposed to be fun.”
“Oh, so now you know what fun is?” Vera asks with a smirk.
“Hablando del rey de Roma!” a familiar male voice yells from behind me. I watch Mateo’s face break into a grin and then I turn around to see who it is.
It takes me a moment to recognize them in this environment since I’ve only seen them in either shorts or training gear, but Alejo Albarado and Luciano Ribiero are standing on the other side of the rope, dressed like a bunch of models. The men in Spain really do seem to have a leg up, style-wise, on the rest of the world, and these two are no exception.
“We were just talking about you, patron,” Luciano says and comes over to us after the rope is lifted. He looks exceptionally dapper in a black blazer and grey jeans, a white v-neck t-shirt underneath that gives a hint of chest hair, and a shiny gold watch on his wrist. His dark eyes are warm, his brow black and low set, and he’s clean shaven compared to the scruffy version I’ve seen all week. His hair is black and thick and wavy, and lightly peppered with grey.
The Portuguese player is not just the captain of the team; he’s thirty-seven, the oldest guy on the team, and maybe even La Liga. People have been whispering for a long time about whether he’s got what it takes to continue and that this might be his last year. I guess we’ll just have to see. Having gone over his records, he seems to be in top shape, aside from a shoulder injury in the past.
My eyes then go to Alejo. Perhaps I’ve been avoiding looking at him. I haven’t had much interaction with him this week, which is good because there’s something about this beautiful boy that makes me feel like an old pervert when I’m in his vicinity.
And right now is no exception.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt that fits his body perfectly, hugging his broad swimmer’s shoulders and long, lean torso, plus black jeans and black Adidas Gazelles on his feet. But despite his professional athlete’s body, it’s his face that I want to keep gazing at.
His eyes are a crystalline blue, like a glacier meeting the sea with just a tinge of green, and the way they look at you, framed by black arched brows, just brims with a type of intensity that’s hard to put your finger on. It’s like he’s made of pure energy and confidence that radiates from every pore. And even though there’s often a smirk on his lips, there’s something in the depths of his eyes that remind me of an old soul, despite the fact that he’s just twenty-three.
It’s okay to just look, I tell myself. He’s young, he’s gorgeous. He knows it.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Alejo grins at me. His smile is breathtaking, making him look older somehow, the contrast of his white teeth against his tanned skin and the crinkles near his eyes. “I did not expect to see you here, Se?ora Blackwood,” Alejo says.
I clear my throat. “Please, it’s just Thalia.”
“And it’s Se?orita,, if you’re going to use that term,” Mateo says, gesturing to the couch. “Now the both of you sit down and stop hovering, but you need to get your own champagne.”
Luciano eyes the waiter and gives him a nod as he sits down beside me, Alejo on the couch beside Vera and Mateo.
“No Se?ora? You’re not married?” Alejo asks me in surprise. “I could have sworn you were.”